Secrets to Keep
by muggleborn.dragon.ryder
Summary: He woke up with no memory. He had a bad habit of doing that. One-shot. AU.


_**Secrets to Keep**_

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**A/N: Okay, erm, here is my newest one-shot! *huge smile* I was in an HTTYD kind of mood tonight, so Dagur got himself a fic. It could have been great, you know. It could have been a chapter story, but...no. I decided against it. So...yeah. Dagur is about fifteen, sixteen here. **

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The boy woke up with no memory.

He was lying in the branches of an oak tree and the branch was making an ominous cracking noise. He didn't know how he had gotten there, in that branch, but one thing in that moment was painfully clear: a cracking branch was bad news.

He jumped.

He hit the ground, hard, but luckily, he was only a few feet above it. He reached up and felt his head, putting a hand in his hair; there was no bump.

He couldn't even figure out what hair color he had, for Thor's sake. He reached up and fingered the locks, trying to bring one down in front of his eyes. The sight of stringy, bright red strands rewarded him.

He let them fall again and that was when he realized how much pain he was in. He glanced down and gasped; no wonder every movement, especially that jump, and the impact of the fall, had hurt him so. He was wearing thick, silvery battle armor with spikes topping the shoulders and the side of the thick, armored suit was stained bright red with blood.

He put a hand there, only to gasp again and draw back immediately. The blood soaking through his clothing was warm and wet. How had he gotten here and how had he gotten so injured?

It was nighttime and the sky was dark, but even in the blackness, he could make out heavy rain clouds. He breathed out a little sigh. His side was beginning to pain him even more, and, thanks to his rotten luck, it was already beginning to lightly drizzle.

It wasn't anything more than irritating right now, but if it turned into a downpour, he was going to have a problem. The only form of shelter for miles appeared to be the oak tree he had fallen out of. He gazed up at the sky for a second or two and then pushed himself up, onto his feet, ignoring the pain in his side.

He walked to the edge of the field he was in, looked out beyond and could see nothing. There was just him, the tree and the rain, the light drizzle picking up now.

He blew out a frustrated breath and turned away.

Clearly, he was going to get no outside help. But he had the odd feeling that he'd survived on his own for years; that was a very long time.

And then, little by little, it began coming back. He remembered his name. He remembered his age. He remembered how he'd gotten here and why he'd come; he just didn't remember how he'd injured himself so badly or how he'd wound up in the branches of an oak tree.

But, no matter – he'd woken up with long-term memory loss before and had been able to remember everything except the events of the day.

He supposed he must've blacked out from blood loss; it happened nearly every time, now. He glanced down at his bleeding side. He wished now that he hadn't sought solitude quite so vigorously; it might have made it easier for him to get back to his village.

He sighed, brushing the hair out of his eyes and looking around. Where was his battle helmet?

Oh, there it was – dangling limply in the branches of the tree he had just gotten out of.

Leave it there, he decided moodily, knowing he'd regret this decision later. He'd regret it all later.

Dagur the Deranged always woke up like this, every month and he always lost one of his possessions because of it. He never wanted to walk away from something he knew he could get; but tonight, his side was hurting him. Tonight, his side was bleeding profusely and he was getting more and more tired by the second.

Tonight, he'd have to go home and think up another lie to tell his father, to explain to him what he had been doing so far from home and why he was injured. He knew why, of course - he probably got too caught up in his desire for human flesh and...he groaned to himself. He wouldn't think of it.

He didn't enjoy lying to his father, not really. It was sometimes necessary, he thought to himself. He adjusted the shoulder pads he wore, wincing slightly and he turned, putting his back to the tree and he walked out of the grassy field and down into the little forest he knew was waiting for him.

He still remembered the days he regarded the forest as the safest spot. He smirked at the bitter, cruel irony of his life. Of course the forest wasn't safe enough. Nowhere was safe enough.

Of course, the villagers on Berserker Isle had no idea what they were housing…and Dagur planned to keep it that way. He remembered once when his father asked him why he spent so much time in that old forest.

_"It's not normal, son," Oswald tried to reason with him, but Dagur simply shrugged and didn't listen._

"_I like the forest." he replied mechanically. Of course he had to say that. It didn't matter whether he did or didn't, not really. Because all that mattered was putting as much distance between himself and his village every time it happened…_

He groaned slightly to himself, closing his eyes. He couldn't afford to think thoughts like that. He jumped over a tree root and kept walking, eyes flicking from side to side. He remembered that some of the younger kids had been planning to play in this forest earlier in the day and for a moment, he froze, wondering how he'd ever live with himself if he harmed a couple of children, before forcing himself to walk on.

Of course he wouldn't harm them. They weren't even here anymore – it was nearing midnight. Nobody in his village was awake.

The idea used to depress him, because during the full moon, he always felt a little sad, a little dreary and plenty angry.

He had become used to it in the past couple of years and realized his bite was quite easy to manage; just find somewhere quiet, hide out until the moon has waned. Then nobody would ever discover that Berserker Isle had a werewolf.

The idea that they would ever find out made a smirk tug at his lips; the only other option he had was being afraid of that every single day and Dagur didn't do fear, so he often smirked or smiled at ideas like this to keep the fear away. He liked people to think he only ran on two emotions: anger and bloodlust.

He sighed as he reached the familiar path to the village; in the distance, he could see lights shining, lighting his way in a fashion that the moonlight never seemed to. He glanced around, making sure nobody could see or hear him and, in the silence, an owl hooted softly.

He jumped slightly. He was getting too edgy. He scolded himself for a moment, but quickened his pace nonetheless as he struggled to regain full control of himself on the way home.


End file.
